


Siren

by sneetchstar



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon what is canon, F/M, One Shot, There Is No Canon Only Zuul, was trying for smut but plot happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 09:26:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11506488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneetchstar/pseuds/sneetchstar
Summary: Summertime is daunting enough for an 18th Century man, but there's nothing like a trip to a beach to hunt down a monster to make everything just that much more complicated.





	Siren

**Author's Note:**

> For Ichabbie Summer 2017
> 
> This story is in no way connected to irishlullaby13’s excellent Heroes and Villains series.

The first summer in the 21 st Century was harrowing for Ichabod Crane. So much skin on display, so little regard for what he considered propriety and decency. Cleavage didn’t trouble him too much due to the fashions of his time, but Abbie used to love seeing how red he would turn when faced with something so comparatively tame as a pair of women’s legs. Even the sight of bare feet in sandals would have the tips of his ears tinged with pink.  _Especially_ if the toenails were painted.

The first time he encountered a bare midriff Abbie thought he was going to come down with a case of the vapors, and she about gave herself an aneurysm trying to hold in her laughter.

She thought about taking him to the beach, but decided he was in no way ready for that, and she did want her partner to remain very much alive.

_Maybe next summer_ , she decided.  _Give him a little more time to acclimate._

However, Crane’s second summer in the 21 st Century was spent God-knows-where, due to him ghosting after the death of Henry and Katrina in the spring, not to reappear on domestic shores until fall.

As luck would have it, Abbie got her wish during summer number three. The break following the defeat of Pandora and the Hidden One was brief indeed, for only a few short months passed before reports were coming in about Strange Happenings at the seashore.

So she and Crane were headed for a beach just over an hour away in Connecticut, not sure if they were up against a creature or a person or another god.

“Mermaids,” Abbie muses, a half-smile on her face.

“Mermaids?” Crane repeats, raising an eyebrow. “Why would a mermaid, presuming they do exist, come to shore and cause mayhem?”

“Why does any of this stuff that happens happen?” she counters.

“Mermaids are generally believed to be benevolent creatures,” he points out. “I would consider Selkies, but all of the victims have been male.”

“Sirens then,” she suggests, pulling into the parking lot of the public beach.

He is silent a moment. “Possible.”

“Let’s just hope it’s not the Kraken,” she says with a smile as she parks.

“The Kraken would not come that close to shore,” he says, getting out of the car.

“A, I was joking, and B, how do you know? Did he tell you?” She pulls a bag out of the back of the car and tosses it at him.

“What is this?”

“Put those on.”

He peeks into the bag. “Absolutely not,” he says, straightening his shoulders.

“We need to blend in. You are doing the opposite of blending in,” she says, stepping over to him. “Look. You know I’ve long since given up on getting you to update your wardrobe.” She reaches up and straightens his lapel, then pats his chest, leaving her hand resting there. “But if we go out there looking like an FBI agent and her Revolutionary re-enactor sidekick, we’ll only cause alarm and attract attention that could prevent us from figuring out what’s going on out there.”

He purses his lips, but one look at her upturned face glowing in the sunlight and he relents. “Very well,” he tightly says, coming very close to admitting that he will quite literally do anything she asks. He suspects she already knows anyway.

“Good,” she says, and rewards him with a bright smile. She pats his chest, slings her own bag onto her shoulder, and ushers him to the changing rooms. “Wait right here for me,” she instructs before disappearing into the women’s area.

xXx

_God’s wounds._

Crane’s feet stop moving, the uncomfortable thong of his curs é d flip-flop pushing back against the skin between his toes, as he spies his Lieutenant waiting for him.

He’s never seen so…  _much_ of her before. True, the image of her wearing only her black bra has been seared into his brain for years now, but this… this is beyond anything his imagination could have conjured. And it  _has_ done some conjuring.

_She is a goddess._

He fumbles with the pair of aviator sunglasses that were in the bag, quickly shielding his eyes with the mirrored lenses lest they give him away. He wills his feet to move. His eyes are locked onto her as he approaches, noting how the garment she would call a “swim cover” really isn’t covering anything, as it is completely sheer.

He can see her gloriously smooth brown skin through it; he can see how her coral colored swimsuit – a  _bikini_ , as he recalls – barely covers her sumptuous form. Not to mention the parts not covered at all: her slender, toned arms, bare to the shoulder, and her shapely legs from mid-thigh down to her perplexingly small and perfect feet.

His gaze lingers on her thighs far too long, and he positively  _stares_ at her toenails, which are painted bright turquoise.

“I was about to send a search party after you,” she says when she finally turns towards him. “And look at you!” she exclaims, lifting up her fetching cat-eye sunglasses to perch atop her head so she can better take all of him in. “He has legs.”

“Of course I have legs,” he bristles. She is so distractingly lovely that he had completely forgotten about his annoyance with his attire. “I do not appreciate them being on display so, but they do exist.”

“Oh come on, it’s not that bad,” she cajoles, moving closer.

Then, to his horror, she unbuttons the top two buttons on the horrid Hawaiian shirt she forced him to wear.

“Miss Mills,” he sputters.

“Relax, Crane,” she says, and her voice is far too soft and tender for him to handle.

_How can I possibly relax with you very nearly naked before me?_ “I… I  _will_ thank you for providing me with modest swimwear,” he manages. “I saw a man in the changing area… oh dear, there he is,” he says, slightly nodding to his left.

Abbie follows his gaze and sees an older man wearing a pair of Speedo briefs. “Yeah, that’s… um… you’re welcome,” she finally says, obviously as unnerved by the sight as he is. “Come on. Let’s find us a monster.”

“The sooner, the better,” he agrees. They drop some of their things in the car, then proceed towards the water.

“Those shades really suit you though,” she says, looking back over her shoulder at him.

“Yes. Well. I may keep _them_ ,” he admits, and she laughs.

As they walk, he cannot help but notice how he is not the only person who notices the Lieutenant’s beauty. The beach is not terribly crowded due to the incidents, but men and women both watch her walk past; most of the glances are appreciative. Some a little  _too_ appreciative for his taste, which causes him to catch her up in two long strides so he is walking beside her, showing that he is with her.

He feels a bit primitive about the possessive act, especially because she is not his to possess, but neither does he want anyone else thinking that they can have her.

They find a place as far away from a lifeguard station as possible, figuring that if anything untoward is going to happen, it would be away from any sort of authority or aid.

Abbie bends to spread out their towels and Crane nearly chokes on his own tongue, quickly moving to stand behind her, his eyes respectfully staring straight forward, looking out to sea.

“Crane?” she asks, straightening up.

“Miss Mills, you really should take more care than to wave your… posterior around when it is covered by so little,” he says, carefully avoiding her gaze.

She opens her mouth, sighs, and closes it. “Okay then.” It’s all she can manage. She raises her hands in surrender, then sits on her towel. “Sit,” she orders, pointing at his towel. “You don’t need to stand guard.”

He carefully sinks down beside her, sitting cross-legged, his back ramrod-straight, hands resting on his knees.

“Oh, wow, you look so relaxed there,” Abbie sarcastically says. Crane makes the mistake of looking over at her and sees her lounging on her side, half-reclined. Thankfully, her swim cover is still on, but she looks _too_ enticing. “At ease, Captain,” she adds.

He isn’t certain if the seduction in her voice is his imagination or not.

He keeps his posture. “I am quite relaxed, thank you very much.”

“Suit yourself,” she replies, then sits up and yanks the swim cover off. A moment later, he feels something hard hit his leg. “Sunblock. You’re going to need it, white boy.”

He picks up the bottle. “I will be keeping my shirt  _on,_ thank you,” he says.

“It’s for the rest of you. Plus your forehead,” she says.

“And what of you?” he asks, pointedly ignoring her jab.

“You first. You need it more,” she says, waving her hand at him.

He sighs and begins slathering himself with the sunblock, not enjoying its strange greasy-but-somehow-dry feel, making sure to get all areas of exposed skin, including the part of his chest that she exposed when she unbuttoned his shirt.

When he hands her the bottle, she pushes it back at him. “I’mma need you to do my back,” she says, turning so she is facing away from him.

“I… um… very well,” he stammers. He was going to protest that it wouldn’t be proper for him to touch her so intimately, but he knows that there is no other way for her to protect her skin without _someone_ assisting her, and he doesn’t even need to glance around them to know that she would have innumerable volunteers for the task should she but ask.

He squirts some more sunblock onto his hand, rubs it between them, then begins spreading it on her back, trying to ignore everything – how her skin feels, how much of her skin he can see, how his hands never want to leave her skin – except evenly spreading the lotion onto her back.  _It’s no different than when I was applying this to myself_ , he tries to convince himself, even though he knows it is  _completely_ different.

Her lower back, just above the waist of her suit, was especially torturous. He wanted nothing more than to slide his hands around her tiny waist, pull her back against him, and plant a series of soft, wet kisses on the side of her neck.

“Thanks,” she quietly says once he has finished.

If her voice sounds a little breathier than normal, it’s surely because of the salt air.

“You’re welcome,” he replies, then wipes his hands on his towel. He watches out of the corner of his eye as she finishes applying the sunblock.

He tries to convince himself that he does not want to  _be_ the sunblock. He fails.

xXx

After about 20 minutes of sitting on the beach with nothing happening, Abbie sighs and stands. “I’m going into the water,” she declares.

“Oh,” Crane exclaims. “Um, perhaps I should… since the victims were…” he trails off, noting she is not paying attention to him, but looking at a young couple.

“Shh,” she absently replies, gesturing for him to also attend.

The young man looks somewhat dazed, but is walking with a jerky sort of purpose, as though something is pulling him to the water. He is being pursued by his date, who is trying to talk to him, to get his attention. She tugs on his arm and he tugs it away just as his feet enter the water.

“Fine! Go then! I don’t have to take this!” she screeches at him, then stomps away.

Abbie and Crane are on their feet, Crane yanking his shirt over his head in his haste.

“Chase me,” she says.

“What?”

“Chase me,” she repeats, then begins running.

He pauses for a split second before he understands her ruse. “Come back here, you!” he calls, running awkwardly on large bare feet not accustomed to soft, uneven sand.

Her laughter, though false, reaches him, and sounds no less musical than her real laugh.

He catches up to her and, unthinkingly, grabs her around the middle, lifting her off her feet. She squeals and laughs in surprise. A real one.

“Oh. Pardon,” he quietly apologizes, coming back to reality. He gently, reluctantly releases her, setting her gently down, the surf lapping around her shins.

“It’s okay,” she says, indulging herself in a quick appraisal of his bare torso before returning her attention to the man walking further out into the ocean. “Damn it,” she says.

Crane starts after him, and she grabs his elbow.

“Crane, you shouldn’t go. You might get pulled in, too,” she says.

“We do not yet—”

“If this isn’t a damn siren I will eat your flip-flops,” she retorts, then bounds off after the young man.

Crane frowns after her, then remembers the bag they brought along. He hurries back over to their towels and digs in the bag until his fingers close around the small pistol equipped with a silencer. The one loaded with bronze bullets. He checks the chamber with it still in the bag, not wanting to cause any alarm.

Not having any pockets, he quickly stuffs it into his trunks and runs back to the water, where Abbie has just reached the young man.

“Lieutenant,” he calls as he approaches.

“Crane, stay back!” she yells. “I can see her!”

He stops, searching the water. “I see nothing,” he replies, moving closer despite her warnings. “And you will be over your head before long.”

“I can swim,” she insists, and he finds himself a surprised and impressed by her bravery and fortitude, considering she very nearly drowned just the year before.

“You’ll need…” he pauses, making certain he is close enough to her before digging into his trunks for the pistol. He quickly hands it to her. “I cannot see the siren, and you are a better shot anyway.”

She grabs it, then yanks the young man back again. He stumbles back in the water, but is still in the thrall of a song only he can hear.

Abbie takes aim, hoping the siren, who looks like a beautiful, horrible mermaid, with pale green skin and dark blue hair blowing in the breeze, doesn’t notice her. Her eyes are glowing red and focused on the young man. Abbie stumbles, trying to keep her footing in the moving water, and Crane comes up behind her, holding her steady.

“Thanks,” she mutters, then takes aim again. Before she can squeeze the trigger, she sees the siren’s gaze shift to a space a foot above her head, looking squarely at Crane. “Shit,” she swears, falters, and renews her aim.

“What the…?” The young man speaks, snapped out of his stupor.

But Crane doesn’t seem troubled. His hold is firm. Abbie sees the siren’s brow furrow, then she refocuses her effort on her original victim.

Confused but resolute, she squeezes the trigger, firing several rounds into the siren.

To her surprise, the siren screeches and shatters into green sparks.

Abbie stares at the gun.

“Lieutenant?”

“It worked,” she exclaims, surprised. “Bullets almost never work. I always try, but it rarely does any good.”

Crane realizes he is still holding her steady, and releases her. “Bronze bullets,” he explains. “It normally takes a bronze dagger to kill a siren, but I thought this would be just as good as, especially with your most excellent aim.”

“Sound logic,” she agrees with a shrug. “Hey,” she calls to the young man. “You okay?”

“Um, yeah… I… how did I get out here?” he asks. “I don’t remember… and I feel weird…”

“You’re probably dehydrated,” she says, grabbing the first excuse that seems likely. “Go get some water. Or Gatorade.”

He absently nods and begins wading towards shore.

Abbie gives the gun back to Crane, and he stows it again. “Let’s go,” she says.

“Yes,” he agrees, looking around, marveling at how no one really took much notice of them even with the gun. But as they were far enough away from the meager crowd, there weren’t many people to take notice.

Back on their towels, gun stowed, Crane’s shirt back on, Abbie looks at him.

“You didn’t hear her,” she says.

“The siren?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she replies, putting her swim cover back on. “She looked straight at you and our dudebro was in the clear for about 15 seconds.”

“Curious,” he murmurs. “Truly, I heard – and saw – nothing.”

“Hmm. Let’s get out of here,” she says, seeming to let it go, but it’s still rattling around inside her head. She pulls her phone out of the bag and sends Jenny a quick text as they leave the beach.

xXx

“Yeah, he couldn’t hear the siren because you were right there with him,” Jenny explains over the phone. Abbie is waiting for Crane to finish changing clothes. Again.

“What do I have to do with it?” Abbie asks, somehow glad she left out the detail that Crane was holding onto her so she could take proper aim.

“Holy balls, do you really not know? Do I seriously have to spell it out for you?” Jenny exclaims. “I mean, not only is it the oldest trope in the book of love spells, but if you haven’t figured out by now that he—”

“I have to go,” Abbie interrupts, seeing Crane finally emerge, once again dressed in his customary attire. Plus the aviators. She pokes the _End_ button on her screen and walks to meet him, putting her conversation with her sister out of her head.

“Were you on the phone?” he asks, removing the sunglasses and artfully hanging them in the vee of his shirt collar.

“Just Jenny,” she says. “Let’s go home.” He hesitates, and she stops and looks back at him. “Crane?” He is staring at her like he has something he wants to say, but is hesitant for some reason. “What’s up?” She walks back over to him.

“Can we not stay a while longer?” he asks, looking at her with those eyes of his that somehow manage to look like both a Disney princess and Puss in Boots in Cute Kitty mode.

She is powerless. She is also getting hungry. “Should we find someplace to eat?”

“Oh, at the very least,” he immediately replies, perking up. “Excuse me, my good man,” he calls out to a passing man. He turns, and they see it is the man who was wearing the Speedos, now adequately covered.

“Yes?” he asks.

“Are you acquainted with this area?” Crane asks, turning on his British charm.

“Lived here all my life,” he answers.

“Excellent! Is there a reputable dining establishment you can recommend?” he asks.

The man looks from Crane to Abbie and back again. “Well, you can’t beat The Nightingale if you’re looking for a good steak, but…” he leans in closer, taking on a more conspiratorial tone, “if you want some romantic seaside dining, then Harborview Wharf is your place.”

“Hmm,” Crane ponders. He glances down at Abbie, who is frowning over a text message, undoubtedly to Miss Jenny. “Is there outdoor seating?”

The man nods. “Might want to call ahead, just in case. Don’t want to disappoint your lovely lady,” he recommends.

Crane extends his hand, and the man grasps it. “I thank you very much for your recommendation, kind sir.”

“You’re welcome. Enjoy your stay in the states!” he bids, then wanders off.

“Miss Mills?” Crane asks Abbie. Her furrowed brow eases as she looks up at him. “Shall we partake in some seaside dining while we are at the shore?”

“You need to ask?” she returns, pocketing her phone as he withdraws his.

By the time they are at the car, he has reservations secured, on the deck, for two.

Abbie deliberately doesn’t take the time to think too hard about what this trip is starting to resemble.

Except for the bit where they killed a siren.

xXx

“May I ask what Miss Jenny has been messaging you that has had you scowling so all evening?” he finally asks. They just set their utensils down after sharing a decadent dessert of flourless chocolate cake with raspberry coulis and homemade vanilla ice cream.

“Have you been wanting to ask me that all night?” she evasively replies.

“Yes,” he readily admits. “Something is troubling you. You get this tiny crease between your eyebrows, just there,” he points a long finger at the spot, “when your sister is causing you some sort of grief.”

“Only my sister?”

“You are avoiding answering my original question,” he says, dropping this same finger to the plate to sweep through the remnants of the raspberry sauce before popping it into his mouth.

As Abbie tracks the motion of his hand, she finds herself inexplicably wanting to grab that finger and suck the sauce off of it herself.

Well, perhaps explicably.  _Damn you, Jenny._

“Yes, I am,” she admits. “She just has… interesting theories about sirens, that’s all,” she sighs and reaches for her water glass.

“Such as?” he asks. Then, before she can answer, he guesses, “Theories about why they only seem to work on _some_ men and not others?”

Abbie’s raised eyebrows and rapid blinking give him all the answer he needs.

Thankfully, the waitress arrives with their check. Crane immediately hands her his credit card without looking at the total.

“Crane…”

“Staying was my idea, and I do need to utilize my newly-acquired card to help establish my own line of credit, do I not?” he asks.

“Yes.” She knows he has plenty of money; he has been getting steady work from various museums, antique shops, and pawn brokers as a consultant. Also, the stone tablets weren’t the only treasures he brought back from Scotland.

“And while I know we are not ‘keeping score’, it pleases me to be able to reciprocate the generosity you have shown me over the years,” he says. The waitress returns and he signs the receipt, then takes some cash out of his wallet for the tip.

Abbie stretches, full of snow crab and chocolate cake, and not really looking forward to the drive home. “Hey, can you drive home? I’m beat,” she asks as they stand.

“I _can_ drive,” Crane answers, placing his hand on her lower back, gently ushering her towards the steps on the deck leading to the beach instead of the exit through the restaurant, “or we could stay the night here and drive back in the morning.”

She is silent as she ponders the weight of his suggestion. They’ve spent the night in hotels in the past, even sharing a room if necessary (with two beds). Jenny’s words bouncing around in her head are making her face things she’s not sure she wants to face yet. And not just about  _his_ feelings.

So she is quite surprised when she hears a voice say, “Okay,” and even more surprised to discover that it was  _her_ voice.

His hand moves from her back, leaving a large patch of cold in its place, while he begins to search for a reasonable hotel.

_Is he just trying to get into my pants?_

_Don’t be silly, you_ live _with the man. He wouldn’t need to go to such lengths just to get me in bed._

_He wouldn’t_ need _to, but it’s definitely something he would do. The man is a walking Grand Gesture._

“Crane?” she asks, looking up at him. She was so lost in her own thoughts that she didn’t notice he was already on the phone.

“Oh, is that why? No, no… it’s…” his gaze finds her, her beautiful face staring up at him, looking so soft and almost ethereal in the twilight, and he knows then that _she_ is his siren and if he doesn’t act soon, the words will either burst forth from him or he will die. “It is fine,” he concludes. She will summon him to some form of death one way or another, and he will gleefully go.

“Everything okay?” she asks, and he nods, even though he has no idea how she’s going to react.

He finishes up with the hotel, pockets his phone, looks her square in the eye, and says, “There is a convention starting tomorrow, but most of the attendants are arriving tonight.”

“Not a lot of rooms available then?” she asks.

“The pickings were indeed slim.”

“How slim, and what kind?” she asks. “Are we talking one room left in a decent hotel or plenty of rooms available in a disgusting, seedy, cockroach-infested motel?”

“The former,” he quietly admits.

“Oh. That’s fine then,” she replies, relieved. They turn around and walk back the way they came, heading towards the car.

“Miss Mills, I feel I should also confess that the room I have reserved for us contains but a solitary bed,” he says, his heart pounding furiously in his chest for fear of her reaction.

_There’s the other shoe._ Amazingly, she maintains her composure, and the voice that turns out to be hers again responds, “Oh. All right.”

She is five yards ahead of him by the time he figures out how to use his feet once more.

xXx

He begins speaking as soon as they are inside their hotel room. “Abbie, I…”

She stops his words with her fingers, gently placing them on his lips. She takes a deep breath and says, “Do you want to know why the siren had no effect on you?” She lowers her hand.

“I already know why,” he answers. He slowly, deliberately, reaches out with one hand and slides it around her waist.

“You do?” she asks, her voice suddenly soft, like her body knows things it hasn’t yet told her brain.

“And I would wager a great deal that is what has you all tied up in knots this evening, as I can only imagine that is what Miss Jenny has been telling you,” he quietly replies, drawing her closer. “It is you who prevented the siren’s song from reaching my ears.”

“Yeah,” Abbie dumbly answers. Being so close to him, so close to him like _this_ is preventing her brain from functioning properly. “Because you… you love me.”

“More importantly, it was because you also love _me_ ,” he clarifies. Somehow her body is flush against his now, both his arms around her, and he rejoices inside that she is allowing him behind her walls.

“What?” she asks, blinking. _Jenny never said anything about that._

He moves, pulling her with him, and sits on the bed, his knees framing her thighs as their positions switch so it is he who is looking up at her. “If my feelings were unrequited, the siren’s song would have penetrated.”

_Don’t say ‘penetrated’._ She swallows hard and sees his eyes track the motion of her throat. He leans forward and presses a tender kiss there.

“Your love for me acted as my shield,” he murmurs, ghosting his lips over her skin.

Abbie’s knees wobble and she fears they won’t hold her, so her hands come up and rest on his shoulders, attempting to steady herself. “She tried. The siren,” she whispers, one hand finding its way into his hair as he kisses up her neck, blazing a heated trail to her lips. “She saw you… fixed you in her sights… and…”

He kisses the corner of her lips. “And nothing,” he finishes, reveling in how she is becoming so breathless and unraveled with so little effort on his part. His lips finally find hers, kissing her softly but ardently.

“So this whole evening _has_ been a date then,” she pulls away and states, her sense popping up out of nowhere. “You’re trying to seduce me.”

He looks completely unperturbed. “Yes,” he answers, as if it should have been obvious. He slides his hands up and down her sides before letting them settle on her hips. “Is it working?” he asks, cocking his eyebrow just so.

“Shut up,” she sighs, then pulls his face back to hers and kisses him, her tongue sweeping into his mouth, where it is met eagerly by his.

A few moments later, Abbie finds herself sprawled across Crane’s chest. A few moments after that, she finds herself beneath him on the bed.

“Abbie,” he grunts, his hand finding its way under her shirt, “we do not have to—”

“Are you serious right now?” she asks, cutting him off and giving him an incredulous look.

“Of course. I understand the importance of mutual consent, and I do not wish to pressure—”

“Ichabod.” Her use of his given name stuns him into silence. “If I wasn’t consenting, you would definitely know by now.”

“Fair point,” he allows, then seems to be distracted. “You are simply the most divinely beautiful creature,” he says, his eyes scanning her face. “Were you born in a different era, sonnets would be written in your honor. Painters would be begging you to be their muse. Yet these tributes would pale in comparison to your ethereal beauty.”

She doesn’t even know how to respond to his words. No one has ever praised her in quite such an elegant way; no one has ever even spoken to her the way he does.

Then he kisses her and his hand finds her breast under her shirt, and she knows she is lost to this man. A moan escapes her throat, and she arches beneath him.

“Abbie.” He breathes her name against her skin as he kisses his way down her jaw to her neck. “Oh, my only heart.” He moves his hand, shoving her shirt upwards until she pushes him so she can sit up. She whips the shirt over her head and then pointedly tugs at his. “As my lady commands,” he murmurs, then removes not only his shirt, but his boots and socks before returning to discover she has stripped down to only her undergarments. With a raised eyebrow and a haughty scoffing sound, he removes his breeches, revealing his hidden secret – he _does_ wear the boxers she left on his bed shortly after he moved in with her.

All she can do give him a knowing grin, which earns her the Raised Index Finger. The gesture usually irks her, but when he takes that same finger, hooks it into her bra strap, and pulls it down her shoulder, she decides to let it go. Especially when he chases the strap’s progress down her shoulder with his lips.

Abbie arches her back, awkwardly reaching behind herself to unhook the suddenly-too-restrictive garment.

“Thank you,” Crane rumbles, then immediately dispatches the garment, flinging it behind him, where it lands on a lampshade.

“Cliché,” she mutters, but her amusement is quickly distracted by the sensation of his mouth over her nipple. She gasps and plunges her hands into his hair, not prepared at all for the intensity of his ardor.

Like he is finally able to release years of feelings he has kept hidden.

He is relentless, worshipping her with his lips and hands and tongue. She doesn’t even realize her panties have come off until the sweep of his tongue causes her hips to jolt off of the bed.

“Be still,” he growls, his large hands clamping down on her hips to hold her steady as he devours her.

“Oh, shit,” she curses, her hand scrabbling for purchase on the rumpled bedspread. She wants to squirm away and press closer all at once, her hips trying to move with and against him, but his hold his surprisingly strong.

She quickly unravels, gasping, crying out, and pulling his hair as she comes, very nearly begging him for mercy.

He merely gentles his tongue, sweetly torturing her as he draws out her orgasm, only stopping when she starts hitting him on top of his head and  _actually_ begging him to stop.

He lifts his head, kisses her inner thigh, and says, “You are ambrosia,” before prowling up over her again.

“You are…” she starts, not sure what to call him. “Unbelievable,” she settles on, reaching up to wipe the moisture from his beard.

“You were expecting me to be polite? Even timid, I’d wager?” he asks, looking and sounding neither polite nor timid as he gives her a look that can only be described as _smoldering._

“All I know is confident Crane is unbelievably sexy,” she tells him, sliding her hands down his sides to burrow her fingers beneath the waistband of his boxers.

“The certainty that you requited my feelings is what return my lost confidence to me,” he admits, then drops his head to place a searing kiss on her lips.

He doesn’t even flinch when she grabs two handfuls of his ass, squeezing it appreciatively. “You got some booty here,” she says.

He snorts a laugh, then rolls away to remove his boxers. She only got a glimpse of what appeared to be a very impressive boxer tent, but it still didn’t prepare her for what he was packing.

“Wow, you got something else here too,” she appraises, vaguely wondering if he’s going to fit. He merely raises his eyebrow and settles between her legs.

He leans down and kisses her again, and when her hand closing around his length draws a gasp from  _him_ , Abbie smiles against his lips. Her hand is small but strong, and his head drops against her shoulder as she strokes him, overcome.

“Your very touch renders me helpless yet makes me feel invincible,” he murmurs, pressing his face into her neck.

“The things you say,” she softly says, guiding him where she wants him. Needs him.

“Abbie, we should have some sort of protec—”

She kisses away his thoughtful concern. “We’re both clean and I’m protected against pregnancy,” she whispers. “I’ll explain later if you want.”

“Later,” he agrees, then lowers his hips and slowly pushes forward. He wants nothing more than to drive in to the hilt, but his beloved Lieutenant is tiny so he is taking care.

She moans as he slides in, widening her legs and lifting her hips to meet him, needing him inside her like she needs oxygen. “Oh, yes,” she sighs, pressing her head back into the pillow.

“Yes, indeed,” he echoes, then begins moving, sliding almost completely out and thrusting forward again, still moving slowly, savoring every second. “Oh, my treasure,” he groans, his pace picking up.

He seems to be able to reach every sensitive place, find all her favorite spots, and even discover a few new areas that have her moaning and gasping under him in short order. His lips latch onto her neck, one hand bracing himself while the other caresses her breast, long back bent nearly in half to ensure her pleasure.

She hooks a leg around his waist, feeling fuller and more satisfied than she ever has, but she still craves _more_. More of this more of him, more everything. And if it means fully opening her heart to him and letting him bust through her carefully-constructed walls like some kind of lanky British Kool-Aid Man, then so be it. All she knows – now that she will admit it – is she _needs_ him like she has never needed anyone before.

And as she looks up and catches his blue eyes staring down in awe at her while he drives them both to the pinnacle of pleasure, she knows he feels exactly the same.

“I love you,” she gasps, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, desperate for an anchor.

“I love you,” he replies, lowering his head so his forehead is resting against hers.

Apparently now is not the time for flowery speeches.

And she is grateful for it, because a moment later, her fingers dig into his shoulders. “Oh… yes…” she exclaims, her second orgasm of the night washing over her. She continues to cling to him, instinctively knowing he is close and wanting to hold him through it.

His eyes close for a second, but he wills them open, keeping them locked onto her when he comes. His whole body tenses and a low growl sounds from deep inside his throat.

Then he relaxes, carefully slumping over her, mindful of crushing her.

She wraps her arms around his shoulders, squeezing him in a tight embrace.

After nearly a minute, he finally moves, withdrawing from her and sliding over to the side. He reaches out and pulls her over to rest her head on his shoulder.

She cuddles against him, throwing her leg over his, resting her hand on his chest, over his heart.

“That was… wow,” she says at length. “I’ve never… with…” she pauses, realizing he probably doesn’t want to think about the other men with whom she’s been, especially because he knows at least one of them. Nor does she want to think about Katrina right now. “Let’s just stay with ‘wow’ and leave it at that,” she decides.

“An accurate assessment.” Something in his tone tells her that he was just as thunderstruck as she. He kisses her forehead and says, “The siren’s song did not work on me—”

“Because I was there, yes,” she says, wondering why he’s repeating himself. She knows he remembers.

“Because I am already under the thrall of a siren,” he stubbornly clarifies. “Your song is much more powerful to me than hers.”

“But I never—”

“You did not need to,” he interjects. “I am, and have been since the day we met, totally and completely yours, Abbie.”

She wants to protest; wants to say “What about your wife?”, wants to bring up any argument to the contrary. But she can’t. All she can say is, “Same,” and lean up and kiss him until they forget all about sirens and the apocalypse.

For a little while.

**Author's Note:**

> Needed to get this posted before the event was over and also before I went on vacation.


End file.
